


In Return

by DoreyG



Category: Welcome to the Punch (2013)
Genre: Brief mention of fantasy dub-con, Did I mention that it was violent?, Fight Sex, Frottage, M/M, No seriously I mean it, Rough Sex, Sex in a van, Spoilers, Violence, Violent making out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:23:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He goes for the man on instinct, the moment he manages to get air back into his lungs. Three years (and a lot more before that, if he’s being honest with himself as he <i>never</i> fucking is) of pent up rage and pain and <i>his shitting knee</i> exploding out of him in one long rush, a flash of fists that he simply can’t contain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Return

He goes for the man on instinct, the moment he manages to get air back into his lungs. Three years (and a lot more before that, if he’s being honest with himself as he _never_ fucking is) of pent up rage and pain and _his shitting knee_ exploding out of him in one long rush, a flash of fists that he simply can’t contain.

The only fortunate thing is that Sternwood looks stunned for only a moment, eyes wide and arms slightly shaking as he’s shoved back, before he responds. Knees savagely upwards into his stomach and then uses the momentum of his wince back to roll them over – get in a few sharp hits of his own with a brutal efficiency that always used to reluctantly impress him before… Well, _everything_.

This is after everything, though, and there’s no way that he can forget it with his knee already starting to ache. A tiny bit beyond the background pain that’s always there. He thrusts up, using his hips to get that extra bit of wriggle room – literally kicks back, slamming his heel into the back of Sternwood’s shin and flipping them again when the man winces.

…A pity, this time, that the man’s only response is to glare when he’s recovered and quickly flip them again.

They relate in this way for several minutes, speaking only the language of flips and kicks and punches until it becomes practically second nature to him. First he’s on top, then Sternwood with dark eyes, then him _again_ with viciously bared teeth. Sternwood punches him in the side, he retaliates with a swipe to the man’s cheek and takes the glancing blow off his collarbone as his due. Soon responds with a sharp jam of his knee into Sternwood’s thigh and then ends up breathless himself as a responding knee slams into the other side of his ribs – barely manages to lift his heel yet again and hit the back of Sternwood’s knee so hard that they collapse practically into each other, sharing the breath from each others’ mouths in such a terribly pained way.

They remain like that for a while, just to catch their breath. It’s probably less than a second in reality, so fast that they’d be fucking _blurs_ even in the speediest crook’s eyes.

And then, to his shame, Sternwood recovers first – grabs firmly onto his wrists before he can yank them free and attempts to pin him firmly to the ground. His eyes are dark above, his cheek already looks slightly bruised and he’s panting even despite their pause. He seems to be actually daring to _look_ for something.

Yeah, right. Like he’s going to allow that. He draws his head back as far as it can go, slams upwards again with his whole body before he can think better of it. He connects with Sternwood’s lips, in a way so vicious that it’s a miracle it missed his nose – the man falls back instantly, obviously stunned. And he can’t even spare a moment to think on how he’s feeling a little shocked himself, slow and sluggish and he wasn’t expecting his nemesis to have such a _hard jaw_ , before he’s smugly diving after – bringing his fists up yet again like it’s the only instinct left to him.

And perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn’t. For when he gets to that point, with the blood pounding hot in his veins and his heart going so fast that it might actually burst out of his chest, he scratches instead of punches. Leaves three (he can’t get a perfect grip with his thumb and little finger, something not to do with Sternwood for _once_ ) red lines down that stubbled cheek and only spares a moment to regret that he didn’t leave _blood_.

Sternwood only gives him a slightly stunned glance from beneath. Wriggles himself – and, when he realizes that the wriggling will do no good, instead uses his frankly _impressive_ chest muscles to lift his torso up… And he wasn’t expecting a man of Sternwood’s age and experience to bite, but it certainly does its job well. He jerks back just a little, just enough so the man can slide out from underneath him – easily flip them again and rise up to the crouch often used for the killer blow.

Not that he’s going to allow _that_ either, indignity on top of indignity. He manages to get his hands on Sternwood’s thighs before an even slightly fatal blow can be dealt. Yanks him down to his knees instead and forces himself up into a sitting position and-

It surprises him, that Sternwood would choose to imitate his method of scratching.

It surprises him even more, that he doesn’t really mind imitating Sternwood’s method of biting.

…It surprises him more than anything has in three years, that he can still be surprised by both things when their mouths are slammed together. Sternwood’s blood upon his tongue, Sternwood’s mouth ever so still under his like the man above knows just as little about what just happened.

They pause for another long moment, stunned and aching. He can feel Sternwood breath against him, one long rush that shakes through both of their chests. He can feel his own knee aching, a little harder than before as if aggravated by all the unconventional exercise. He can feel the both of them moving the tiniest bit, together as if they’d spent weeks and months and _years_ in each others’ beds…

They both move at the same time, Sternwood pressing him down into the floor as he reaches up to yank Sternwood ever closer.

…Yeah, like he’s letting the bastard go on top for even a second. He hisses pliantly up into the kiss for a second, and then lifts his knees to either side of Sternwood’s hips and flips them again so savagely that he can actually feel the man’s teeth judder as his back slams into the ground. Sternwood only makes a breathless sound in response, tightens his grip on either side of his faces and kisses like a drowning man being brought back to air.

For a moment, yet again. And then the man actually _sits up_ – using that astonishing torso strength to lever them into an entirely new position. Forcing him to lean back, half by will and half by his body’s instinctive desire not to get snapped in half, until he’s straddling a warm lap. Half hard and with his knee _aching_ at it.

…Well, actually and properly throbbing. To the point where it actually brings tears to his eyes. Which is less than good, which is so much less than good that he feels entirely inclined to change it right this fucking second.

He breaks the kiss for only a moment, only to awkwardly surge to his feet and stretch his knee into a far more agreeable position, and then is immediately reaching down and yanking Sternwood up to him. Their mouths slam together again, their teeth only narrowly missing each other, and they stand like that for a second – weaving even closer together, Sternwood’s leg between his thighs and mouth hot on his and _hands_ steadily moving lower and lower down his back.

The illusion, that he would be perfectly happy letting Sternwood do _anything_ with those hands, lasts for less than a minute – and then the man makes a vague swaying motion, as if wanting to press him back against a wall, and reality returns once again.

This situation is _far_ too important to allow anything of the sort. He moves before Sternwood can get there first – using the element of surprise to turn the man, press him back against the hard metal and slide all over him again before he can do the slightest thing. He bites at Sternwood’s mouth, slides his tongue against Sternwood’s tongue, slides his hands lower and lower until he’s grasping Sternwood’s hips and _yanking_ there. Fitting them together so perfectly that the world could burn around them and he’d only mind the slightest bit.

He manages one thrust.

Two…

Three…

And then, as if the universe is punishing him for underestimating Sternwood _again_ , he finds himself shoved back. And not just simply shoved back – shoved back so hard that he finds himself sprawling across the hard floor, the air slammed out of his lungs and his knee brought back to vividly aching life so suddenly that he almost screams.

Not that he has the time, before he can make even the softest sound Sternwood is on him again – worrying up his neck before viciously claiming his mouth. His whimper of pain is turned into a whimper of pleasure, both fiercely bitten back as his nails dig into the back of Sternwood’s shirt above him. Hard. So hard. So hard that a _ripping_ sound rends the air and makes him pause for just the briefest moment.

It doesn’t matter, yet again. It’s rather a good thing, actually, as Sternwood takes it as an invitation to pull back and _strip it off_. He’s never fantasised about the man before this moment - of course he hasn’t, what kind of sicko would obsess over somebody that’d completely ruined his life? – but if he had he thinks that Sternwood would look far better than expected. Fit, muscular, _hot_ in a way that could mean any number of things as he presses back down and fits them back together.

For a briefly blissful rocking moment, and then _Sternwood_ is flipping them again so that he’s awkwardly balancing on top of that muscular chest – grasping his bruised ribs so hard that he barely bites back the hiss that wants to burst through his nose and looking up at him in a way that can only be called… _Stern_.

“Strip.”

“I don’t have any condoms,” he hisses sullenly, but obeys anyway – sure that he’s not as fit as Sternwood, but at least reasonably certain that he has a certain scrawny charm of his own (he’s never had any troubles with his top half, _after all_ ) , “or lube, you utter _bastard_.”

…But problems are made to be overcome today, apparently.

He struggles valiantly for the top spot, scratches and bites and even _thrusts_ until Sternwood gives a barely noticeable gasp through his nose and tightens his fingers even further, but eventually has to concede – flipped onto his back again with his hair flopping into his eyes and a sweet feeling running across his skin and stealing all the pain away. Sternwood leans back in just as he’s appreciating it, kisses him with an odd sweetness that he wasn’t expecting and that leaves him breathless yet again, and then-

…He’s expecting a handjob.

He’s expecting Sternwood to slide down his body and use his mouth.

He’s expecting, in the vilest section of his mind that can think the very darkest things, to be flipped over and stripped and entered anyway-

…He’s not expecting Sternwood to simply lower himself back over him, a steady weight that leaves him harder than he’s ever been. To fit them back together like they’re two parts of one whole. To start ever so slowly rolling his hips, grinding them so intimately that he’s pretty sure that he’s never felt anybody so close.

Huh.

Soppy, this is nowhere _near_ close enough.

He tolerates the slow burn for only a few moments, and then _surges_ up again. Their kiss had become leisurely, slow. He makes it a fight, something so fast that it makes his heart pound in his chest and his blood sing in his veins yet again. He scratches at Sternwood’s arms, digs his heels into the backs of Sternwood’s legs, savagely bites at absolutely everything he can reach. He claws and gnaws and rips and _tears_ until the heat between them is set on fire, becomes a sort of inferno that neither of them are ever gonna escape.

Because they’re both in this to the death, baby. There’s no stunned pause from Sternwood this time, no weary look as if he’d rather just retire to some fucking house in the country and leave it all behind. He only lets out a little sigh, as if relieved, and then surges back with just as much force – clawing hard nails into his ribs, bearing savagely down with his knees, meeting the bites with viciously slick pushes of his mouth that almost seem to stun him. He tears and he rips and he gnaws and he _claws_ and who wants to escape this anyway? _Ever_?

A forest fire built for two, and he’d never have anything else even if he lived for a hundred years.

He scratches at Sternwood’s arms, harder and harder until he can almost _feel_ the skin break under his nails. It’s practically a disappointment when he briefly catches sight of them – sees them ordinary and blunt instead of jagged and covered in red.

Not that he can feel disappointed for long, what with Sternwood soon distracting him and making _everything_ simultaneously worse and better. His ribs are properly starting to bruise now, will probably be a vivid shade of blue by tomorrow – the man seems determined to make it even worse, digging in harder and harder until he’s practically _screaming_ with the glorious pressure.

He doesn’t, of course. Simply pants into Sternwood’s mouth instead, feels the man’s returning breath against his lips like it’s _easy_.

Heh, ease has absolutely no place with them. To retaliate he sticks in his heels that little bit harder, uses the leverage to fuck up into Sternwood and fuck Sternwood down onto him. The man will probably have bruises himself, if he can bend enough on the morrow to check the vivid backs of his legs. He finds himself uninclined to care that much, _especially_ with the friction that the new angle brings.

And even _more_ especially (is that even a term? He doesn’t give a _fuck_ ) when Sternwood doesn’t seem to give a solitary shit either. Simply takes the fucking down with good grace, only bringing his knees back into it when that glorious angle is reached. One is grinding down into the floor, practically useless, but the _other_ … Well, the other seems perfectly able to slam into the side of his good leg. Grinding steadily against the joint like the man means to make him entirely unable to walk.

How fucking cruel. Sternwood fails to groan an apology into his mouth, he fails to whimper a demand for one. The air remains silent between them, as perfect as ever.

He feels confident enough to break from the heat of the kiss at that, nose his way up to the stubble of Sternwood’s hairline and then bite just above his ear, at his earlobe, just below his ear, down to his jawline and beyond so he can sink his teeth into that warm expanse of neck. Sternwood will have to wear a turtleneck for _weeks_ after this, and yet he doesn’t even seem to care. Will probably have to wear a hat for about the same amount of time, and still doesn’t give a _shit_.

Perhaps because he’s too busy, grabbing the sides of his neck and _yanking_ them back together. He sinks his teeth viciously into Sternwood’s lower lip, but the man yet again fails to care – only makes a noise that’d make him harder if he could _get_ any harder, and yanks him closer and closer until they could simply merge into one without a single bit of fuss or mess. He’s never really kissed another man before (and university doesn’t count, he was barely there as it was) – but kissing Sternwood somehow feels… natural.

Like they were always heading here. To the point where they could share breath, warm and slick and absolutely uncaring.

Because, really, who has the time to _care_ at a moment like this? His lungs start to ache, for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with Sternwood’s bruising grip. The man himself starts to shake above him, muscular arms finally feeling the strain as he keeps driving down. He finally lets out a yelp, Sternwood finally lets out a moan. His nails start to lose their grip as his vision starts to white out, Sternwood’s thrusts lose all their rhythm as he breaks their kiss to press his own bites down his neck. They fit together for one perfect moment more.

…Two.

_Three_.

And, to his pride, Sternwood is the one to tumble over first. Going stiff and then slack against him, murmuring something hot and impossible into his neck that might be something exactly like his name.

_Hah_ -!

He doesn’t have too long, though, and perhaps that is yet another punishment handed down from the universe. The moment that Sternwood starts to shift against him again is the moment that he falls himself, vision whiting out with the friction of flesh on glorious flesh and the taste of sweat and blood on his tongue and- _and_ -

So many years of chasing coming to a head, a halt at one perfectly glorious point.

…Soppy.

_True_.

…Even after he comes back to himself, enough to be embarrassed, and even after Sternwood has to have been back to himself, for so long that he must’ve felt the same, they remain coiled together. Sternwood’s head still buried in his neck, his hands still resting lightly on Sternwood’s upper arms. Breathing together again - not sharing each others’ air this time, but still so close that the rise of his chest leads to the other man being pushed up.

And then.

He’d wanted to be the first one to move, but Sternwood quickly knocks against his bad leg and reduces it to _agony_ and so he’s left simply writhing on the floor as the other man starts up. It’s less than a second until he returns, kneeling down to gently cradle his head and stare into his eyes in an almost apologetic manner…

While holding a gun. That one from earlier, that he’d somehow managed to conjure out of thin air in the middle of a gunfight… That one that he’s aiming coldly right between his eyes, like he isn’t afraid to blow his brains out even with the sweat still cooling on their skins.

They stare at each other coldly for a moment.

“Where’s my son?”

Ah.

He has the horrible, gut clenching and spine tingling and lingering warmth killing, feeling that things are about to go _seriously_ fucking wrong.


End file.
